On the Verge (10 page)

Ophidia’s wistful vulnerability of the last few moments evaporated, replaced by the hard edges that Freya was used to seeing her wear.

“But the snake,” she continued, “now that is a different story entirely. The snake I found, suited me rather nicely, as it is alive and well in the minds of humanity. It is a presence that haunts the world, that moves through reality in a way that a vacant simulacrum like Eve cannot.

“Humans fear the snake. They blame it for their original fall from grace and for all the myriad disgraces they suffer upon each other throughout their short, ineffectual lives. They made it the master of a domain of punishment for those same sins, a place of heat and torment. And in their minds the snake’s legend grew like a particularly pernicious weed. It is feared for its promise of fire and brimstone certainly, for its deceitful temptations and pitiless retribution too. But most of all, the snake is feared because, as all the best legends are, it is not just a story, but a reflection of the deepest, truest parts of human existence.

“I found the power assigned to darkness extended across any single culture or time period. There are few things that are universal, but abhorrence for evil and its insidious nature is written deep into the make-up of the human brain. Aligned with the darker side of life, my reach and influence were nearly unlimited.”

Ophidia paused and then, looking directly at Freya, intoned, “Do not doubt. The serpent is a woman and that woman is me.”

For her part, Freya was simply trying to wrap her head around the fantastical history lesson Ophidia had just delivered as matter-of-factly as a professor might recite a lecture to a bunch of undergrads. She wasn’t really in the mood to debate this lunatic on the identity of Sin or the serpent, but Ophidia was looking at her as though she expected some kind of response and it was uncomfortable being the subject of her regard for longer than was absolutely necessary.

“So, you were an ordinary succubus,” Freya said uncertainly, “and then Stuck painted you, gave you a new name, and you magically became the sinful side of Eve with her connections to the devil.”

“Yes,” Ophidia replied, her tone serious, bordering on morose.

“Right, okay. Then how does someone like you find herself working for some mortal like Beldame?”

Ophidia blinked, breaking her laser-like focus on Freya, and continued her perambulations around the cluttered gallery floor. After a few moments she began speaking again.

“It’s a bit complicated,” she said.

“Of course it is,” Freya said, rolling her eyes.

“There’s something that happens to inhabitants of the Verge sometimes,” she explained. “When we are given great power, we become tied to the thing that gives us that power. It’s a phenomenon called ligature. For some they may become connected to a holy book or relic. For others, like myself, we become tied to particularly powerful works of art. We are mighty, but at the same time completely vulnerable to control, for whoever possesses our object possesses us. Again, our very existence and even autonomy are dependent on our human creators.”

“And let me guess,” said Freya, “Beldame owns your painting.”

“Yes,” Ophidia said, her voice heavy. “You see,” she continued, “I am not evil incarnate as one might suppose. As an invention of man, I am only a reflection of the human mind, mercurial and unpredictable. Not good, but not wholly bad either. Beldame, on the other hand, is an aberration, one of those truly evil people born without a soul or a conscience. She has no qualms about the evil she wreaks. She is a sociopath and she has found out the secret of my painting. She knows that she owns me now. The things she has planned for me and for others of my kind cannot be allowed to happen.”

“What can we do about it?” Freya asked. “How can we stop her?”

“There must be a way,” Ophidia said quietly. “It will not be easy. But—”

At that moment a strange sound reverberated through the gallery, like a million bat wings flapping in unison. It sent chills down Freya’s spine.

“He’s here,” Ophidia spat.

“Who is?” Freya asked. She tried to control the panic in her voice.

“An old flame. No time to explain now. I’ll see you again soon. In the meantime don’t tell anyone about our little conversation. Get the colors she’s asked of you, but make sure they don’t fall into her hands first.”

The cold light in Ophidia’s eyes flared.

“But I don’t understand.” Freya’s mind was racing.

“Just get those colors and keep them safe. I’ll find you,” Ophidia said.

She clipped away toward the center of the gallery space. Raising an immaculately manicured hand, she reached out a finger. The red nail polish elongated, stretching itself into a cruel talon, curved and sharp. She pulled her finger down slowly, as though meeting resistance. Suddenly it was as though the space of the gallery itself became a canvas, the edges curling in on themselves to reveal only matte blackness beyond. Ophidia stepped lithely through this rent in the fabric of the world and was gone, the tear disappearing as soon as the spiked heel of her Louboutin was swallowed by that terrifying emptiness.

Freya was breathless. She was filled with a sudden terror as though all of the strange events of the preceding days had twisted together around her heart and squeezed. She was almost home before she even realized that she had been running. When she finally collapsed onto the floor of her apartment, her lungs were burning and her feet ached. She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

The cold light of the moon flooded the tall windows of her apartment and softly illuminated the place where she lay. A shadow that could have been a cloud passed silently by outside, blotting the moon’s peaceful luminescence bit by bit. The darkness crept silently, almost sensually up her body until it engulfed her face and head. Freya grimaced and then relaxed and the gloom lifted. The moon glowed once again. A sound like a million velvet wings retreated into the night.

F
reya steered the car confidently around the long arcing curves of Interstate 90, but the old behemoth wasn’t hers. She didn’t have much use for one in the pedestrian-friendly confines of Capitol Hill, and most of the time that was how she liked it. She couldn’t stand traffic, a problem Seattle was plagued with as more people had caught on to the charm of the place, clogging roads meant to support half the number of drivers. She also hated to pay for parking, gas, and insurance. She was a student with a very modest income, and she had better things to spend her cash on, like spooky bric-a-brac for her little cabinet of curiosities. Despite all that, she’d always enjoyed driving on open roads at high speeds, even better if she was in a powerful car, and it just so happened that at that moment all three of those requirements had come together to produce a most enjoyable little ride to the Cascades, a mountain range just east of Seattle.

Luckily for Freya, her neighbor, old Mrs. Cartwright, was generous enough to lend her the use of her car from time to time in exchange for a little service that Freya provided the tiny wisp of a woman—a weekly delivery of three bottles of Jack Daniels hidden at the bottom of a grocery bag filled with other innocuous-looking food stuffs. Freya never asked questions but she was rather glad the feisty old lady didn’t drive any more. In exchange for her services Freya had full access to the shiny black 1960 Cadillac parked in the creaky old garage adjacent to the alleyway behind the Briar Rose.

In general Freya considered herself to be a green-living, eco-conscious steward of the environment, but she had to admit that when she pulled out of the confines of the old parking spot and onto the road she felt like a badass, even if it was behind the wheel of a giant gas-guzzler.

Today, as she steered the sleek car down the mountain highway she felt particularly good despite the fact that she had yet to report back to Dakryma on what she had learned of Beldame’s motives. As her thoughts lingered over her broken promise to the professor, she felt a pang of anxiety. But it quickly dissipated as she focused on the physical beauty of the landscape slipping by, the acres and acres of pines dotted here and there with the red and orange of deciduous trees resplendent in their final autumn glory, a natural kaleidoscope broken only by the steep, craggy precipices of the metamorphic peaks of once-active volcanoes. She’d find him when she got back to Seattle and fill him in. For now, she wanted to get the first color before she lost her nerve.

Her destination today was the small mountain hamlet of Cle Elum where, as a quick Internet search had informed her, she could find the first stop on her list, Stone Lodge Quarry. She pulled off the highway and into the heart of the small town. While not exactly scenic, its low clapboard buildings and dusty awnings did have a certain charm. The few people out on the wide sidewalks stared disinterestedly in her direction but continued on toward their various destinations at a leisurely pace.

While not a lover of the limelight, Freya had secretly hoped that the roaring motor of Mrs. Cartwright’s Caddy would merit more than just a cursory perusal, but the townspeople out and about today seemed more jaded than even the resident hipsters on the Hill. Freya sighed and used both hands and more than a little muscle to persuade her the car to the right and out of town across the Yakima River as the pleasant voice emanating from her Google Maps app directed.

The road out of the river valley was twisty and pockmarked with ruts and grooves from too many hard winters as it rose out of the lowlands and up the side of a particularly dramatic-looking pinnacle. The grassy meadows on either side, punctuated here and there by rugged ranch houses, gradually gave way to rocky forest. It had been a good five minutes since Freya had passed another habitation when her GPS told her to take a right off the main road onto a tiny lane that was more hiking path than drivable space.

After a particularly bone-jarring bump that shook Freya’s teeth in their sockets, she decided that for the good of her dental work and the old car’s pristine chassis she would be better off walking the remaining half mile to the quarry house. She pulled the Caddy as far off the road as possible and stepped out into the thick shade cast by the dense trees pressing in on either side of the dirt track. Freya pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her North Face vest and kept her eyes trained just slightly ahead of her brightly colored running shoes, taking care not to twist her ankle on the uneven terrain while she let her mind run over the uncanny events of the previous few days.

She had just gotten to the part where a sociopath art collector had threatened her life when a sudden rustling to her right startled her, breaking her purposeful stride. She was seized by a sudden panic as she stared into the deep shadows in an attempt to locate the origin of the noise. All she could hear was her heart beating in her ears. Deciding that it must have been an errant squirrel or early-bird raccoon, she turned her attention back to the rocky path in front of her.

“Who the hell are you?”

The rumble of the gravelly baritone voice made her jump, but it was the sudden appearance of the giant crag of a man in the middle of her path that truly frightened her. She stood stock still like a frightened squirrel, eyes wide, muscles tensed, and waited for the giant to make a move.

“I said, who the hell are you?”

Freya tried to focus on the man through the gloom, but his face was obscured by the half-light of the forest track and a giant woolen hood masked his features further still. Her thoughts raced. How long would it take her to get back to her car and could she out run this beast of a man? He looked big, but fit. Like an ox, he was thick and muscular and, at well over six feet tall, his height and width made Freya feel small which didn’t happen that often.

However, the thing that frightened her more than his size or sudden appearance was the sizeable pickaxe he held in his giant hands. It was getting darker every second but what little light did remain served to highlight the inordinately shiny metal and long, black handle of the old mining tool.

The hulking stranger swore under his breath and shifted his feet in the rough gravel of the road, making an ominous grinding sound. “I’m going to have to ask you to get the fuck off my property.”

“S—sorry.” Freya struggled to push the air over her vocal chords. “I—I’m looking for…”

“I don’t give a shit who you’re looking for.” The huge man had crossed the distance between them in a blink of an eye and was now inches from Freya’s trembling body. She still couldn’t see his face but his smell filled her nostrils, a strange combination of earth and pine with a distinctive metallic tang, and something else too, a spiciness, subtle but undeniable. “You need to leave, now.”

Freya began to back away and then stopped. “Please, I just need…”

The man reached out and grabbed the top of her vest, pulling her up to her tippy toes and in so close to his face she could feel his breath, hot on her cheek.

“Get. Off. My. La—.”

“But I need blue, cobalt blue,” Freya finally managed to spit out, not sure if her intended errand would make any difference to the behemoth.